06/07/2025
AFRO METRO.
Culture: A Dying Phenomenon.
By Omohwo Lawrence
Sometimes I sit under the old mango tree—yes, the same one that has seen more seasons than some of us have seen birthdays—and I ask myself: if our ancestors woke up today, what would they see?
They would take one look at the streets of Lagos, Accra, Nairobi, and I tell you, they would faint, resurrect, and faint again. Because what their eyes would behold would be enough to send even the ancestors back to the land of the dead, weeping into their ancestral palm wine.
Once upon a time, our culture shone brighter than freshly polished calabash. Our identity wrapped us like the thick aroma of ogbono soup or the sweetness of roasted corn by the roadside. The way we dressed, the way we spoke, the way we moved—it was all woven from the colorful threads of pride, dignity, and belonging.
But now? Kai! The picture don bend.
Step into any city, any day of the week. You’ll see young girls walking around like they’re lost on their way to a nightclub—shorts that look like they were borrowed from a toddler, tops so small they could pass for handkerchiefs, breasts practically waving at passers-by. Even the moon that used to hide behind the clouds is now peeping, wondering what has happened to our people.
And it’s not just the girls. Married women—yes, women who should be the keepers of tradition—are now competing for the title of “Who Wore It Less.” Bump shorts, bare legs, chests barely covered, everything on full display like market tomatoes. Some dress in ways that would make masquerades cover their eyes.
I ask myself: Where did we drop our wrapper?
Where did we hang our dignity and forget to collect it?
Look, I’m not saying we should all walk around in animal skins beating drums. No, times change. Even the tortoise sometimes changes its shell. But when the change becomes a total erasure, when we forget the stories sewn into the fabrics of our ancestors, when we lose the beauty of modesty, respect, and identity—we are standing on quicksand.
The way we dress is not just fashion. It is language without words. It speaks of who we are, where we come from, and what we value. Right now, the message on the streets is clear: our culture is wearing thin.
We have traded the bold patterns of our heritage for borrowed styles that leave us half-naked and half-remembered. We have forgotten that in African culture, beauty does not mean exposure—it means elegance, grace, and pride in who you are.
As I sit under this mango tree, I shake my head. The ancestors are watching. The masquerades are confused. The drums have gone silent.
But hear me well:
A fire may burn low, but if you fan it, it can still rise.
A wrapper may fall, but it can be tied again.
A people may forget, but they can still remember.
Let us not be the generation that allowed culture to die on our watch. Because when we lose our culture, we lose our name, our story, and the rhythm of our own heartbeat.
And when the music stops, my people, even the feet forget to dance.
Omohwo Lawrence
